


Hail Mary, Full of Grace

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Graphic Description, Lust, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6606325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was amusing in a way—his young master waiting for him each and every night, laying nude on the bed like a sacrificial Botticelli on a raging sea of sapphire taffeta.</p><p>Ciel has nightmares that only Sebastian can take away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hail Mary, Full of Grace

The lips that trailed down his body were smooth and warm, caressing his exposed form with the utmost reverence though it was almost laughable to associate anything divine with him. He was beauty made flesh, a bewitching terror whose lean form and exquisite mouth made the earl _moan_ and _sigh_ and cry prayers to the saints he'd once renounced. How tender his demon's kisses could be, open mouthed and wanting, as Ciel laid back, fingers clutching at silk sheets, and body trembling with anticipation.

He told himself that it was the only way—that the ruby eyed demon was the only thing keeping the nightmares away. Without him, the earl would devolve into fits of madness—tossing and turning in his grand satin bed, hurling screams into the darkness and receiving only silence in return. _Please,_ he would sob and beg, _someone_ ** _help_** _, someone have_ ** _mercy_** _, someone_ ** _save me_** _._ The memories of cold granite and feral chanting would resurface with a vengeance during the night, when there was nothing to distract his mind from the vulnerability of the past. Fear and anxiety would pierce through the weak shield he'd set up and nothing, no competing thought, could surpass the memories of burning flesh—the lecherous grip of the cultist pinning him down, mocking his heritage, bruising the fair, pale skin that the demon now kissed.

* * *

"Make it go away, Sebastian— _make it stop._ " The earl commanded one pitch dark night, the summer month was hot and air, electric. He had kicked away the sheets and now sat in an upright fetal position, hands clutching at his midnight blue hair. "Do _something,_ " he hissed, "that's an _order._ "

"Very well young master." The demon complied, and the earl did not notice when his butler's gloves came off. His servant came closer, one knee on the bed as he extended one long, elegant forefinger and gently tipped his master's head back.

Ciel was surprised but before he could reprimand his butler for his boldness, Sebastian pressed a searing, _burning_ kiss to his lips.

The demon's mouth, the demon's scent, wrapped around Ciel like a heady blanket of cinnamon, sin, and black desire. His mind blanked—the earl could think of nothing but Sebastian's mouth on his, tongue hot as it brushed against Ciel's lower lip, not so much asking permission as demanding it. He climbed halfway onto the bed, one arm braced against his master's side while his free hand dropped from Ciel's chin to his chest, gently pushing him down onto the silk sheets. With his master's body beneath him, the demon was now in control.

His mouth _never_ once left Ciel's and he— _Sebastian_ —radiated heat. He was every sin ever encompassed.

Ciel could feel the intoxicating warmth through the thin material of his nightgown and whatever shock, whatever daze he had been in, suddenly cleared. With determined, desperate fingers, Ciel tugged on the tie and vest his butler always wore—wanted to free him from the confines of propriety, wanted to feel skin on skin contact—wanted to press the flesh of another against his own. The sensation of touch, Ciel supposed, was the only way to get rid of the horror.

* * *

In the present, both bodies had been stripped bare of clothing—one was taller than the other, well muscled and as stately as the statue of David. The other was delicate, with apple white skin that could easily be sliced open. Blood coursed beneath his fragile beauty, vermillion and warm, ready for the taking. But it was not blood the demon wanted—it was _him_. He desired his lord carnally—desired him fitfully for it had now become ritual for the demon to visit his human master's bed. To worship him biblically and take away the fear writ in those beautiful eyes, one sapphire with purity, the other tarnished—violet and demonic.

The earl's arms were wrapped around his shoulders, his body arched against his as the demon took everything he could from this mortal lord. Breath play burned their lungs, sweat beaded on both their foreheads as their bodies desired release; cock brushed against cock, hardened and sure, as Sebastian felt the earl's vanity come forth. _Always so greedy, always wanting more._

It was amusing in a way—his young master waiting for him each and every night, laying nude on the bed like a sacrificial Botticelli on a raging sea of sapphire taffeta. The silken material licking and hiding his body, the trembling of his hands as the demon caressed Ciel's body—suppressed rage and wanton lust seemed to break through his master's skin and infect Sebastian himself. The sight of Ciel excited him in a way nothing else could. Tasting and touching and fucking—all these physical manifestations of devilish vice turned to pious virtue when the demon visited his earl's bed.

_Spread your legs—don't come until I say so or you might just be denied until sunrise._

And his lord would obey, desire coursing through his veins as he desperately tried to push himself closer against Sebastian. _I want more,_ his frail body screamed, _break me—touch me in every way you know how._

The sinners dance was what they engaged in, permeating the air with sensual want, creating their own damnation together while still on this mortal plane. It allowed his master to forget and—wasn't it a butler's job to please his master?

_Yes my lord._

Promises were kept, debts exchanged and the devil danced beautifully in this unholy union.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Botticelli, of course, refers to Early Renaissance artist Sandro Botticelli who created the now iconic Birth of Venus painting.
> 
> A/N: Um. I wrote this at 1 AM when I couldn't sleep. I've never done this type of fanfic before so if it's terrible, you can say it. I won't be offended.
> 
> Review? (Or at least a "keep doing what you doing and stay away from this" response?)


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